The Chill in my bones
by ramblingonandon
Summary: A 'what if' scenario set in season 3, episode 8. Because amidst the lives turned hectic and grim, some things need to be re-evaluated and others need to be reaffirmed.


**A/N:****So over at the story idea forum by Deana, Madame d'Herblay prompted: "In S3E8 when Aramis is urging Porthos to shoot him and while the latter is caught in a dilemma, it is Athos' shot that rings out and ends the stalemate. But what if his shot had gone wide and hit Aramis instead? Would Porthos ever forgive Athos? Would Athos forgive himself? Will Aramis survive and will their brotherhood recover." **

**That sparked my imagination and this one-shot happened. The only plot here is what the prompt suggested. It won't gel with the episode beyond that one point. As it usually happens, the lyrics at the start and end are from the song that inspired and spurred the story onwards.**

**Gratuitous hurt/comfort, likely medical inaccuracies and possibly advance medical knowledge for the era ahead.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable here, nor making any money. **

**Happy reading! **

* * *

_**Loving and fighting,**_

_**Accusing, denying,**_

_**I can't imagine a world with you gone,**_

_**The joy and the chaos, the demons we're made of**_

_**I'll be so lost if you left me alone… - **__**[Chord Overstreet – Hold On] **_

* * *

Fingers grazing over cold rough stones he moves along the wall, pistol at the ready. Porthos has left a trail of bodies in his wake and glancing in what must have once been the courtyard Athos finds no living soul. He will add one more to it this day; Grmaud will not see another sunset he vows to make sure of that.

"Stop!" Porthos yells from somewhere on the other side of the wall.

He breaks into a run, keeping low Athos hurries along what's left of the corridor in this building. He has to reach them; he has to stop Grimaud once and for all.

"Lower your weapon!" Grimaud calls.

"No Porthos!" Aramis' refusal is instant.

Grimaud will not escape, Athos will not let him. He steps out through the doorway as d'Artagnan and the others hurry on ahead to circle in behind the enemy. Athos moves along the outside of the corridor he had been in.

"Lower it," Grimaud warns, "I'm leaving,"

Not likely, he won't let him. Athos' jaw clenches, grip tightening on his weapon as he stops at the corner of the ruins. Pressing back against the stone wall he peers around the bend until he can see Porthos. And there in the distance is Grimaud, holding Aramis before him. The man isn't aware of him, he is focused on Porthos, is making sure to use one Musketeer as a shield against the other.

"Kill us both. Do it!" Aramis yells at Porthos, "Shoot now!"

"Shut up!" Porthos snarls.

The big man has no clear shot, not unless he is willing to go through Aramis. Athos raises his pistol and it dawns on him that he has no clear line of sight either; Grimaud is ducking behind Aramis, partially exposed but they both keep moving. The man would escape, slip through his fingers again. Grimaud will not be brought to the end he deserves.

Athos steps out far behind Porthos and fires.

And so does Grimaud and his man, and Porthos and d'Artagnan and somewhere there is Aramis' cry of pain but all Athos sees is the man in the black cloak getting away. He blocks the attack of one of Grimaud's men, moves through the motions without thought until he knocks the man down just as d'Artagnan rushes past him.

Athos follows.

So does Porthos and the rest of the Musketeers.

Grimaud will not get away, not again.

D'Artagnan fires after the man and Athos wills his shot to hit the mark. Waits for Grimaud to stumble, stagger, drop; wants nothing more for the horse that the fleeing man had taken to lose its footing, for at least one shot fired at the retreating enemy to be true. He can only stare as once more Grimaud gets away from their clutches.

D'Artagnan's frustration rends the air.

Athos wants nothing more than to do the same. Hands curled into fists at his side he glares at the way Grimaud had gone, imagines riding after him, imagines taking aim and shooting the man to finally see him fall off the saddle; dead.

"You should have all fired!" Aramis yells at them from the distance.

"You shouldn't keep secrets!" Porthos yells right back at him.

"I wanted peace!" and there is so much anger there that Athos finds himself looking back at their friend.

"We've seen what war does to the world. It makes refugees," his wrists are still chained, it does nothing to deter the rage in his gestures, "Men like Grimaud. Places like Eparcy."

Aramis turns away and Athos bites back a sigh. Picking up the keys where Grimaud had dropped them he walks past Porthos who is glowering at their fuming friend, and Athos tries not to let his own anger show. It tastes bitter on his tongue and he hopes it does not seep into his words.

"There can be no peace as long as Grimaud lives,"

Aramis half turns to him, panting from spent rage. He says nothing as Athos opens up the metal cuff on his wrist but the brown eyes that hold his gaze give Athos a pause.

"Not for you my friend," Aramis says.

And just like that the frustration quiets, the anger simmers down in his blood and that snarling, clawing, bloodthirsty creature that had taken up space between his lungs sooths. His friend doesn't say another word. Only looks away once the other wrist is freed.

And it's odd Athos muses, how someone who had never pried into his past, who had never questioned the things that haunt him still has the ability to calm him down. To let him know that the man understood and most of all, that he didn't judge him for it. But this solace hadn't been there in these past years where every decision he made had come with the risking of lives, when his orders had always resulted in loss of soldiers; acceptable losses as they were called.

He had missed this.

He knows so had the other two.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat he crouches to free the bindings around his friend's ankles. He didn't expect the boots before him to shuffle a bit as they do and he looks up at Aramis as the man sways a little.

Athos raises a brow.

"Just the rush from the fight," Aramis says.

With a nod he turns back to open the metal cuffs that had chained together his friend's feet. Pulling away the shackles he tosses them to the side and his eyes widen. His gaze caught on the rapidly falling drops of crimson on the ground. The dirt has darkened and clumped and he blinks away the worry it sparks.

Athos stands abruptly and catches Aramis by the arm. The man hisses and pulls away.

"You're injured,"

Aramis frowns at the patch of red on the inside of his upper arm.

"It seems I am," he pulls the injured arm closer with his other hand.

There are red trails on his left palm that Athos is sure weren't there when he had freed him, it takes him a minute to pull his gaze away from the red dripping from the tips of his friend's fingers. Grasping the man's right arm Athos pulls him along.

"We need to get this sorted," he looks for the others only just noticing them not gone.

"They went to the courtyard," Aramis says, "I think d'Artagnan sent the other three back to the camp,"

The muscle under his hand is shivering and Athos can tell there is a drag in his friend's step.

"Porthos' angry," Aramis says.

"Which one of us isn't?" Athos counters.

Aramis smirks, tips his head in touché and stumbles. Athos catches him before he can fall on his face on the small set of wooden stairs they've reached.

"Are you injured anywhere else?"

"Cuts and bruises,"

It doesn't feel like it, Athos cannot put his finger on it but he knows there is something gravely wrong with his friend. He can tell that the other man has read his skepticism and something fond uncurls in his chest at the eye roll that gets him.

It's familiar and warm and ancient now.

It's brotherhood that he hadn't felt in years.

"I'm not hiding any dangerous wounds," Aramis says, "Grimaud wasn't a good host but nothing unexpected."

And that man has held his friend captive for over a day; something vile sloshes in his guts at the thought. Athos finds no time to spare on it as Aramis shudders and he hurries them along until they are in the courtyard. Porthos is there, sitting on a piece of rock and d'Artagnan stands before him prodding at the wound on the big man's head.

"What's wrong?" d'Artagnan asks.

"He's bleeding,"

That has Porthos looking there way too.

But Aramis pulls himself out of his grasp and makes it to the nearest standing wall, pressing his good shoulder against it he swallows thickly and Athos knows an attempt to keep from throwing up when he sees one.

"His arm," he turns to d'Artagnan, "it will need stitches,"

D'Artagnan simply picks up the bag dropped by Porthos' foot and follows him to where Aramis has slumped down to the ground. Athos does not like the wet sheen glistening over Aramis' face. But he cannot keep the corners of his lips tipping up at the grin that comes to his friend's face.

"Look at that, my student all grown up," says Aramis.

"Provoking the man wielding the needle," d'Artagnan smirks back, "not wise my friend,"

Breathing a bit too fast Aramis glances to the wound he is clutching before he looks to d'Artagnan, Athos does not miss the fleeting glance his way either.

"I think the ball is still in there," Aramis says.

The ball? He's been shot? Athos frowns, Aramis was in Grimaud's hold the entire time. Did the man shoot him before making a run for it?

A bitten off groan pulls his thoughts back and he crouches again, reaches out to keep Aramis sitting by the wall with a hand to his chest and the other against his shoulder.

"No. He's right about the ball. I need light," d'Artagnan hurries to his feet, "and the wall is casting a shadow,"

"Porthos!" Athos calls over his shoulder.

Is only half surprised to find the man hovering just a little ways behind him; and as he helps Aramis to his feet Porthos steps in easily to share the weight. They only manage to make it to the edge of the watery sunlight before Aramis' knees buckle. A cry of agony slips past his lips as their holds tighten and his shoulders take the brunt of the tug to stop his fall.

"Set him down, just set him down here," d'Artagnan hurries to his knees.

Even before Aramis can straighten his limbs their youngest slices through the blood soaked leather and cloth of his sleeve. It's a small hole, clean and bleeding just a little too much than what Athos would expect from it.

"Hold him down," d'Artagnan looks up at them, "I'll have to dig it out."

Athos looks to Porthos.

It's the worst thing they've had to do in these past four years, even knowing that they are helping their comrades hadn't softened the ache of keeping a man down for more misery.

It never had.

And it's always a special kind of torture when they have to do it for each other.

Still Athos wastes no time to pin Aramis to the ground and Porthos holds their friend down on the injured side. And then d'Artagnan touches the wound. Athos has no idea why he expected screams and bucking and twisting and snarls. Aramis never did that. He was never one to make a fuss over his hurts. The familiar novelty of the too tense body in his grasp and the clenched jaw and eyes is a slap to the face.

How can he forget?

How can he not have noticed that his friend had been shot?

How come none of them had known that he was bleeding where he stood?

Aramis' face is turned his way, pulled taut to the side against the pain that d'Artagnan's search has ignited in his arm. His left arm Athos notes, the opposite of the side Grimaud had been shooting from comes to his mind, he remembers Aramis clutching his right ear as he went down. Not the left, the left was the side from which he had shot at Grimaud.

Athos sits back abruptly, horror freezing him in place.

He shot Aramis.

And Aramis knew; that was what it was in that fleeting glance, Aramis knew and he hadn't wanted him to know.

He is going to be sick.

"I got it," d'Artagnan flashes them a grin.

He pulls out the offending piece of metal and a small arch of blood follows.

Bright red.

"I – I –" their youngest pales.

A damaged artery, the shot had damaged an artery.

Athos shivers.

"Porthos," it's Aramis' whisper that breaks them from the lull.

And Porthos clamps down on the wound with both hands, he leans on it but Athos can see the creases between his fingers staining red too quickly.

"Burn it," Aramis grounds out.

And d'Artagnan is off like a shot, tossing logs into the almost snuffed out campfire in the courtyard before sprinkling it with gunpowder to speed up the fire. But it's not fast enough, Athos can tell by the way the small pool of blood is forming under Porthos' hands, he can see it in the way colour has leeched from Aramis' lips and the pale hue to his face.

"Why didn't you say you were shot?" Porthos growls.

"Didn't know," it's too breathy.

And Athos can't watch this. He did this. He shot his brother. First Thomas now Aramis, he is a failure at being a brother. He rises half way to his feet but the tug on his sleeve stops him. There are bloodstained fingers clutching at the leather of his doublet, the grip is waning and Athos clasps them in his hands before they can slip away.

He sits back down.

Can't raise his head to witness this.

His friend, his brother was bleeding out from the shot he had fired.

"It happens," Aramis says between the short sharp breaths he is managing.

Athos looks up so fast his neck hurts.

He squints in the winter sunlight until the brown eyes hold his gaze again, grounding, steady and calming. And yet something is seeping out of them even as he looks on.

"Y'missed, 't happens," the voice is quieter, "y're forgiven,"

His gaze blurs but he dares not let go of the hand in his grasp to wipe at his eyes. He is aware of Porthos staring at him but can't speak for the prickly stone lodged in his throat. The fingers in his hold flex, seeking and giving assurance as they curl around his hand but there is a scary lack of strength behind them.

"N'body's fault," Aramis says, "tell d'Artagnan,"

"Tell him yourself," Porthos replies.

The thick edge to his voice is missed by no one.

" 'll try m'best,"

It's almost a sigh.

Athos holds on tight to the hand in both of his, wishes to somehow pour his strength into the loosening fingers that he will not let go. This can't be happening, not now, not this way, this can't happen. Fear mists his thoughts, chills his spine.

" 'Mis?" Porthos whispers, "C'mon, none of that, c'mon, please,"

Athos blinks to clear his vision and almost wishes he had not. Because Aramis' eyes are at half mast, there's a dusk hanging in their horizon and Athos feels his breath lock in his chest. He wants to shake the man, pull him up and shake him until his teeth chatter and he pushes him away in rage. He wants to scream at him to stop this nonsense; he wants to yell at him to live you bloody idiot!

"Aramis?" it leaves him in a hush.

But the dark eyes close.

"Don't do this 'Mis," Porthos murmurs.

No, no, no, no, Athos cannot look away from the relaxed face before him, cannot glance towards his friend's chest to see if it still moves with breath, cannot reach out and feel if the heart still beats in there, he cannot, he will not.

"I got this, I got this," d'Artagnan drops down beside Porthos.

The tip of the blade in his hand glows red.

Its hiss rings loud as it touches the wound.

A grimace skitters across Aramis' face, a half hearted sound of protest forms and his hand twitches in Athos' grasp. The smell of burning flesh threatens to flip his stomach but Athos refuses to let go and step away, keeps looking for any more signs of life still remaining where he fears it deserting. His own blood has turned into ice in his veins; terror wraps around his heart and slows the world around him.

The clang of steel on rock startles him.

The cooled, blood stained dagger lies by the wall. Athos looks to d'Artagnan's sitting back on the ground and gulping air, catches the shake in the hand of their youngest as he wipes at his mouth before scrambling to his feet. The sound of his retching reaches them minutes later and Athos feels his own stomach clench in sympathy.

Porthos reaches forward to press his fingers against Aramis' neck.

It takes him longer than Athos wants it to but –

"Alive," Porthos says, "barely,"

And he understands the grim lines creasing the corners of Porthos' eyes because they've all seen men slipping off quietly to death even if they've survived the initial blood loss. Athos looks away. They've survived battlefields and ambushes and sabotages. For four years they've lived under death's claw and waited for it to close around them. How can they survive that and Aramis succumb to this?

Because an enemy can never hurt where a friend can his mind supplies, and he closes his eyes against the rust coloured smudges Porthos has left on Aramis' neck.

He wants to check the heartbeat again, wants to know himself that it's still there.

But he's terrified it won't be.

And it'll be his fault.

A different morning in a wealthy home comes to him, a morning of search and diamonds and standing there pointing his pistol at one of the men he calls his brothers. When did playful threats turn real between them he wonders and sees Aramis on the other end of Porthos' pistol this morning; and then again he had been in the line of fire of Athos' own shot.

And this time Athos had done it.

He had fired.

His insides twist as he sets down his friend's hand and gets to his feet. Turns away to where he can still help and heads over to d'Artagnan. The younger man is still bent over and breathing deeply. Athos offers him his flask of water and d'Artagnan rinses his mouth before he drinks a mouthful.

"Is it wrong that I wanted him to scream? To struggle?" he asks.

"It would've proven him more alive than dead," Athos says.

He takes the flask back when it is offered, eyebrows rising at the tremble in the younger one's hand. But d'Artagnan isn't looking his way; Athos' follows his line of sight to where Porthos is bent over Aramis' motionless form.

"Did I kill him?" it's a pained whisper from d'Artagnan.

"You did not,"

I did.

He lays a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and for the first time in four years he sees vulnerability in the slightly dipped head, fear showing in the posture where war had failed to put it. But it was his shot and it was the thought of losing one of his brothers that had instilled it there, brought forth the young man who had marched into the garrison and challenged him.

"It's not your fault," Athos says, "Aramis was the first to have you know that,"

D'Artagnan nods and straightens, his hands still shake as he walks back to the other two and Athos follows. As they near he can see that Porthos has covered their injured fourth in a pair of blankets.

"Where did you get those?" d'Artagnan asks the question he is thinking.

"They've got supplies in there," Porthos' gaze does not pull away from Aramis; he does not pause as he applies a salve to the blistering wound, "he's bruised all over but nothing broken,"

"That's a relief," d'Artagnan blows out a breath.

Athos feels numb.

"Let the others know we'll be camping here for the night," he says, "by tomorrow we'll know –"

–if they'll be rescuing their friend or retrieving his body; it hangs in the silence between them.

Porthos turns to him, his face strangely blank and gaze shuttered in a way Athos has seen only on few occasions.

"You shot him," he says.

It's neither a question, nor a declaration.

"What?" d'Artagnan frowns.

Porthos surges to his feet, his finger jabs Athos in the chest but he refuses to give ground. Porthos towers over him and he stares right back.

"You shot him," it's flat, dull like the blunt edge of anger in his eyes, the same eyes that turn to look back at Aramis, "and he asked for it,"

Porthos shakes his head, wipes his hands on a piece of rag and tossing it aside he walks away. It's d'Artagnan who asks for clarification.

"I shot Aramis," Athos tells him.

There is no other way around it. And he is grateful that the younger man doesn't question him further, instead he stoops to press his fingers against Aramis' neck and looking to Athos he nods. The heartbeat is still there but Athos cannot find it in him to feel it lest the precarious balance tips away from their favor. Looking away from the too pale face of their fallen friend he turns around.

He goes after Porthos.

Finds him just outside the ruins, glaring at the tree line in the distance.

Athos stops at his side, doesn't look at him as he watches the two Musketeers coming towards them with their horses and the prisoners, Espoir a lively presence between them. In that moment he isn't the Captain of the Musketeers, he isn't a soldier, he is in truth simply alone.

And it dawns on him that so is Porthos.

They've been side by side these past years but never together.

"What happened to us?" Porthos asks.

Turns to him before he can reply and the rage in the dark eyes is a living thing.

"How can he ask that of us? How can you fire at him? How can I –" he breaks off, looks away as he wipes a hand down his face and winces when he touches the wound on the side of his head.

"How did we fall this far apart?" Porthos asks the ground he is staring at.

Athos hold back a sigh. He can blame the war, he can say it was because Aramis refused to join them in it, or that because he even decided to leave them. He can send the blame even further back; because Aramis kept getting distracted by the Dauphin, because of Aramis' tryst with the queen, he can say that it's entirely Aramis' fault because the man is reckless.

Had always been.

Aramis hadn't changed.

They had.

D'Artagnan coming to tell them that they had found Aramis in Grimaud's clutches that morning comes to his mind and clear as day he can see Porthos looking to think this through and his own decision to simply act.

His intelligence has fed into impatience.

And Porthos' hurts had fanned caution.

Without Aramis there to temper either, he had went back to being the man who had condemned his wife to death without listening to her part of the murder she had committed; and Porthos had stopped letting people in. There had always been instances, kernels of that side showing through but Aramis had been there to clear the lines drawn in those moments, whether it was by shaking the concern out him for Porthos, collaring the disbelief about Porthos' innocence out of d'Artagnan or asking them to listen to what a deserter had to say. In these past four years the two of them had simply grown into men they would've been had they never come across a certain marksman.

"Aramis left," that was his fault, "and we cast him out," that was theirs.

"We didn't –"

"We could have written to him," Athos looks him in the eyes and dares him to refute it, "soldiers have been known to do that for their families back home,"

His friend looks away.

Porthos stands rigid, hands balled into fists at his sides and his jaw twitching around the words he keeps entrapped behind his teeth. Athos can see the battle going on from the pull in his friend's shoulders but he cannot predict the outcome. He almost wishes for the other man to yell at him, to rant and roar and threaten retribution.

Porthos' shoulders drop slightly.

"I couldn't get to Grimaud, I wasn't seeing straight anyway. And Aramis kept asking me to –" he shakes his head, "I was considering taking that shot,"

"And I took it,"

It's the one shot that will forever echo in his mind.

* * *

The evening is cold.

Their camp is silent.

Athos pulls his gaze away from the flames and glances toward the two Musketeers who sit at the entrance of the yard, side by side in quiet conversation. In one of the roofless rooms are their prisoners; d'Artagnan and his cousin sit together with a mug and a bowl between them; and there on other side of the campfire Porthos sharpens his sword.

To his right, set close to the warmth of the fire Aramis still lies unconscious.

In the glow of the fire his face is nearing the shade of chalk and the shadows pooling under his closed eyes appear deeper. The bodies scattered over one battlefield after the other come to his mind Athos pushes down the shudder that threatens to break over him. He blinks as he catches sight of it, turns fully to see that it isn't the trick of light and hurries over to his friend.

Sitting on his knees he swipes the back of his fingers over the cold forehead.

"Aramis?"

His friend swallows again, lips parting into gasping breaths as his face pulls in a grimace. Aramis' good hand reaches for the bandage on his arm but it's taken up by Porthos who is suddenly thee on his other side.

"Easy now," says the man, "we're here,"

Aramis sits up suddenly, nearly knocking heads with Athos.

"Grimaud," he pants, his free hand clutching at his head, "Grimaud,"

"Not here, he's gone for now," Porthos pulls away the other hand too, makes sure to keep that one raised enough to not strain the wound on the arm, "you're fine 'Mis, you're safe. We've got you,"

Dark eyes blown wide look from Porthos to Athos and back again; with both his hands in Porthos' grasp Aramis looks to the man with such childlike confusion that Athos swallows hard.

"Wha –" Aramis coughs.

"Here," d'Artagnan is there with a cup in hand, "drink this,"

Porthos bends the wounded arm at the elbow and keeps it pressed to Aramis' chest; they will need a sling Athos muses as he watches a few drops spill from the cup in Aramis' shaky hand. Grateful that d'Artagnan hadn't filled it to the top he reaches out to steady it. Pulls the cup back when his friend tries to gulp it down in one go.

"Let it settle," he replies to the pitiful glare.

"That's not water,"

"Rabbit stew," d'Artagnan shrugged, "watered down for you,"

Aramis hums as he nods, Athos can see he is leaning heavily into Porthos' hand on his shoulder and brings the edge of the cup back to his friend's lips before he can succumb to the exhaustion.

"Where'd you get the rabbits?"

And Athos can't keep the smile in check at this apparently pressing query.

"My cousin shot them for us,"

Aramis blinks as the cup is pulled away again.

"Good shot," he says.

"That he is,"

"He came with you?"

D'Artagnan chuckles and draws a hand down his face. Shaking his head where he stands with his arms crossed stares down at their injured friend.

"Yes Aramis, he came with us," he says, "he's always been good with a pistol and helped us deal with Grimaud's men,"

Aramis rubs his free hand over his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

" 'm glad he did," he says, "you needed to have someone in my place for this one,"

Athos winces and so does Aramis, brown eyes flying open to stare at Porthos' hand on his shoulder. Even in the deepening evening Athos can see how hard the other man is gripping the shoulder in his hold.

"Not in your place," Porthos bites out.

"Yes, yes, I know. Learned to live without me," Aramis rubs at the side of his head, "this dizziness is making me sick."

Athos isn't sure that the man realizes the way his laid-back words had stung Porthos to a halt. The big man looks torn between anger and pain and losing to both.

"Do you remember what happened Aramis?" Athos asks.

"Queen's letter, Grimaud, rescue, Grimaud escaped," he is breathing through his nose and even as he ducks his head Athos can see him swallowing back the nausea.

"You were shot," d'Artagnan crouches down by his feet, "do you remember that?"

"Uh huh,"

"There's nothing uh huh about it," Porthos snaps, "Do you want to get killed? Is that it?"

"Of course not!" Aramis squints at him.

Porthos lets him go and Athos is surprised that Aramis not only takes his weight sitting up but cradles close his injured arm with his good one.

"That's not the tune you were singing this morning!" Porthos yells at him, "You were pleading us to shoot you, asking us again and again; berating us when we didn't!"

"I wanted you to shoot _through _me at _Grimaud_," Aramis says like it makes a difference.

And Athos shivers at the realization that maybe it truly does in his mind. This was a man throwing himself over bombs on the off chance that he can snuff them before they blow him to bits; reckless with his life if it means saving another. Always had been, always will be.

Athos looks to Porthos.

But it's d'Artagnan who speaks up.

"Would you have done that for either of us?" he asks.

Aramis shakes his head and looks away.

"Why?"

"Your lives are precious to me," Aramis says, smirks back at their youngest, "I'm selfish that way,"

D'Artagnan looks him straight in the eyes.

"It goes both ways you know," he says.

And Athos hates the surprise that flashes across Aramis' face.

Wonders as Porthos had, how did they fall this far apart?

"I thought I'd killed you today," d'Artagnan looks away, "with all that blood – I couldn't think anything else but that I've made it worse and –"

"You didn't," Aramis shifts, winces but still reaches out until he can grasp d'Artagnan by the shoulder, "it wasn't your fault. The ball was already in too deep."

"But I pulled it out and –"

"You saved my life d'Artagnan," Aramis speaks with enough strength for them all to stare wide eyed but he doesn't look away from their youngest, "you saved my life. I can never thank you enough for that."

The grasp shifts from shoulder to the back of the neck and Aramis gives the younger one a little shake.

"Thank you," he says, "whichever way it may have gone, whichever way it may go in the future, I will always be thankful to you for doing your best."

Athos does not miss the wet sheen over d'Artagnan's eyes as the younger man nods, pats the arm holding onto him and takes to his feet.

"You can thank me by not dying," he says and picks up the empty cup, "I'll get you more stew,"

"I don't think I'll be able to drink that," Aramis groans but the younger one is already stepping away.

Hunching forwards his friend keeps his injured arm close to his chest and lowering his head he simply breathes, it's clearly an effort to calm the sharp short rhythm his lungs had set in and it is only then that Athos notes the other man to be shivering.

Picking up one of the blankets from Aramis' legs he drapes it over the bent shoulders.

"It was my shot Aramis," he says.

"I know," his friend pulls the blanket tighter around himself, "at least I realized once I felt the wound,"

"I shot you,"

"No, you missed the mark you were aiming for. It happens to the best of us," a grin on pulls at wan lips, "me being one of them,"

Athos raises a brow, not at ease with the dismal of what had happened; of what could have happened.

"You shot at Grimaud but it went wide and hit me instead," Aramis says.

"You don't understand, I didn't think," and that feels like a kick to the gut, "I was only thinking about Grimaud and didn't consider the danger to your life."

Icy fingers clasp his hand where it has curled into a fist at his side.

"You're already forgiven brother, let it go,"

And it's like a weight rolling off from that spot between his shoulders.

"I was thinking about it," Porthos' voice is pitched low under the burden of his words, "I was thinking of shooting at you,"

Aramis tips his head a little to the side and Athos finds his own smile mirroring the grin there.

"That happens more than once in a day ever since we've known each other," Aramis says, "there's no need to be alarmed about it,"

The dark glower crushes the humour and Aramis sighs. Closes his eyes and swallows a few times before he opens them again. Athos frowns at the barely visible trembling.

"I was asking you to do it Porthos, of course you were thinking about carrying through," Aramis says.

"Did you even consider what it'd do to me if I had?"

And Aramis' gaze drops to the blanket on his lap, head hanging low as he shifts to clasp his wounded arm closer still and Athos feels something twist around his lungs.

"I knew it would be a loss but an acceptable one," Aramis says, "my life for Grimaud's, it'd be worth it in the end,"

"Acceptable?" the word is just short of a snarl, "Acceptable loss? That's what you think you are to us?" Porthos grasps the collar of Aramis' doublet and hauls him closer, "You honestly believe I'd have gotten over it,"

"Eventually, yes,"

And the definitive impassiveness about it magnifies with the honest, if a bit confused tone. There is no doubt that the man accepts his words as true. Athos hates it.

"That's not –" Athos starts but is cut off by Porthos' frustrated growl.

The man gives their friend a shake. Athos catches the surprise on d'Artagnan's face as the younger one sits down at his side.

"You're a selfish bastard 'Mis!"

"We've already established that, let's try something new," and damn if there isn't a dangerous edge to it.

"First you leave us and then you refuse to join us and now this?" Porthos shakes him again, "You think you have the right to waltz in and out of our lives at whim?"

Aramis tugs himself out of the big man's grasp.

"I'm already out Porthos,"

"That's because you left! And when the mood struck you came right back!"

And Athos can see the tiredness sweep over their wounded fourth as the rigid spine softens abruptly and the shoulders fall.

"What is it that you want me to apologize for my friend? Leaving or returning?"

The words are steeped in exhaustion. There is no anger in the stare that meets the big man's glower. But it is Porthos who finally looks away. Aramis drops his head in his good hand and kneads at his scalp.

"I'm afraid you won't get one for any of them," he winces as he raises his head, "I'm sorry for both but I don't regret either,"

D'Artagnan frowns at the cup he has brought back with him.

"You're sorry you came back?" he asks.

"Sometimes," Aramis rubs the back of his neck and refuses to look up.

"Not worth it," Porthos says.

And Athos winces at the way Aramis' eyes close at his words.

"Catching Grimaud, killing him," Porthos sighs, "nothing is worth losing you 'Mis."

Aramis sits straight so fast that Athos grabs him before he can topple backwards. But the dark eyes don't even glance his way as they gaze in bewilderment at Porthos. Don't even blink as Porthos leans forwards and adjusts the wounded arm back into Aramis' lap from where it had fallen to the side.

"You're not replaceable brother," Porthos says.

The man Athos is holding up by the shoulder sits motionless like he is carved out stone.

The silence is broken by d'Artagnan's laughter. Thumping Porthos on the back he grins and chuckles.

"Aramis rendered speechless," he shakes his head, "Never thought I'd see the day."

"I –uh –" Aramis blinks.

Porthos huffs as he sits back and crosses his arms before his chest, eyes narrowing.

"And next time you ask any of us to do that we won't shoot you," he says, "I'll just wring your neck afterwards,"

"I'll help," d'Artagnan says.

"Impractical," Aramis grins.

"Satisfactory," Porthos smirks.

And Athos smiles; because these right here are their roots, this is family. No matter where they've been or where they go, this is what makes them who they are. And not one of them is, nor ever will be replaceable in that.

Shifting his grasp from the shoulder to the back of Aramis' neck he pulls the man in an embrace. Can feel the shock of his move before it vanishes from the brother he holds close. Close enough to feel him breathe, enough to feel the heartbeat he had feared would be silenced forever this day.

And the terror melts.

* * *

_**I pull you in to feel your heartbeat**_

_**Can you hear me screaming 'please don't leave me'**_

_**Hold on, I still want you**_

_**Come back, I still need you - **__**[Chord Overstreet – Hold On] **_

* * *

**END.**


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